“Malachi would never!” In a flash, the fear in Emma’s eyes hardened to indignation. “How dare you say such a thing? It’s a vile lie!”
Oliver laughed. “What an innocent.” He stroked a piece of her hair. Emma yanked it from his grasp with a twist of her head and a glare, only wincing slightly when the few strands tangled in his fingers tore out of her scalp. “Maybe he hasn’t done anything, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t wanted to. Right, Mal?” Oliver shot a knowing glance at Malachi.
Mal’s gut clenched guiltily. He had imagined what it would be like to kiss Emma—she was too beautiful inside and out for him not to dream of such a treasure—but she was too young. And far too good for the likes of him. He’d sooner cut off his arm than take liberties.
“We’ve seen the way you watch her. Haven’t we, fellas?” Oliver shared a look with his friends, his smirk fanning the flame of Malachi’s rage. The boys holding Mal laughed and shouted their agreement.
Mal quit struggling. Let his arms go lax. Prayed his captors would instinctively relax, as well.
Oliver turned back to Emma. She renewed her struggles. “Do you suppose she tastes as sweet as she looks?” Then the dirty scum grabbed her head and brought his mouth down on hers. Hard. Staining Emma’s purity with his foul touch. She whimpered, tried desperately to push him away with her free hand.
Malachi struck. Using his thin build to his advantage, he twisted free from his captors’ loosened hold. Dodging their grasping hands, he threw himself to the ground, flipping so he’d land on his back. He kicked outward and upward, his bootheels jamming against the tender area of both boys, where he knew it would cause the most pain. As they howled and doubled over, Mal leapt to his feet and lunged for Oliver.
The boy’s eyes widened. He released his hold on Emma in order to bring his fists up for protection, but Malachi didn’t give him the chance to take a swing. Putting his head down, he rammed Oliver’s midsection and carried him to the ground. Oliver punched wildly at Mal’s back and shoulders, but Mal ignored the pain. All he saw was Emma’s terror as Oliver forced his attentions on her. Mal straddled Oliver, pinning him to the ground just as Oliver had pinned Emma to the tree. Then he smashed his fist into Oliver’s jaw. Oliver cried out.
“Say you’re sorry,” Mal demanded as he raised his fist, threatening another blow.
Oliver whimpered. Then his gaze darted to somewhere behind Mal. “Please, don’t hurt me. Please. I didn’t mean to . . .”
Didn’t mean to? He’d held her down and attacked her!
Mal swung, but arms grabbed him from behind before the blow landed. Mal fought their hold. They were stronger than before. A man’s arms.
“That’s enough!” Abby’s father pulled him off of Oliver and flung him aside.
Mal immediately sought out Emma. Tears streaked her face. Tangled hair stood out from her head, bits of bark clinging to her curls. But her bright green eyes locked on him, full of gratitude and of worry—for him.
She hurried to his side and immediately started fussing over his cuts and scrapes, as if they mattered.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, peering down into her face through a rapidly swelling eye. “I should have watched you more closely. I should’ve—”
“Don’t you dare blame yourself, Malachi Shaw.” She scowled up at him even as she brushed the dust off his sleeve. “Oliver is the one in the wrong, not you.” Then she smiled one of her magic smiles at him, the one that turned his insides to mush. “You protected me against three boys older and larger than you. In my book, that makes you hero material.”
Hero material? Bah. A bunch of girlish fancy. But the words wormed their way into his bones, spreading their roots and vines until he couldn’t escape them. A hero. Emma’s hero. Him. Malachi Shaw. The idea was ludicrous . . . yet he longed so much for it to be true, that it infected him at the deepest level.
Unfortunately, Emma and the aunts were the only ones who considered his actions heroic. Harland Evans, Oliver’s father, demanded that Malachi be charged with assault. The aunts insisted that Oliver be charged with the same crime against their niece. Abby’s father could only testify to Malachi’s attack on Oliver, not Oliver’s attack on Emma, so since Emma was basically unhurt and Oliver sported a busted nose, bloody lip, and a nice assortment of bruises, the sheriff sided with the Evans family. Not convinced a boyish scuffle really warranted jail time, yet needing to placate Harland Evans, who insisted Malachi was a miscreant who never should have been allowed into their community in the first place, the sheriff gave Malachi a choice. Leave Gainesville or go to jail.